In the House, In a Heartbeat
by devirnis
Summary: "The man possessed by it is calm, cool, deliberate; perfectly cognizant of what he is doing; understanding, as no other man understands, the full meaning and extent of the waves and spasms of agony he deliberately creates…" - Frances Power Cobbe
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So this basically came out of my reading _The Island of Doctor Moreau_ and listening to a creepy John Murphy song. Enjoy!

Title is from the song "In the House - In a Heartbeat" from _28 Days Later_.

**Edit (02/03/11):** At my good friend HyperSoft's suggestion, I have reworked one paragraph. Go check her out: .net/u/1990424/HyperSoft

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The emotional appeal of those yells grew upon me steadily, grew at last to such an exquisite expression of suffering that…it was as if all the pain in the world had found a voice.

- H.G. Wells, _The Island of Doctor Moreau_

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**1.**

He wakes on a cold table, with the Devil whispering in his ear.

At first, he feels only sensations: disorientation, confusion, recognition, fear. The memories come in the smell. He knows this smell. It's the smell of surgery, anaesthesia, and death. He knows this place. He's been here before, in a waking nightmare. This place is terror and despair. And he knows this voice. It is no stranger to him; it is easily recognizable, _too_ familiar. He has heard it speak too many times. It should have been silenced long ago.

"Donatello."

No, that name is sacred, forbidden. It is for fathers and brothers. It is not for _him._ _He_ has no right to call him that. But he will. Because he can. This is his kingdom. In this place, his power is absolute and guaranteed. Indisputable.

There are straps around his wrists and ankles. New and crisp material; he can detect the smell of fresh leather underneath the stench of chloroform and sterility. This leather was purchased with him in mind, for the sole purpose of securing him to this table. And suddenly, the smell of sanitation is overwhelmingly sickening. _Everything_ in this abattoir is new. Everything is just for him. Everything.

"Do you know what you are, Donatello?"

His eyes open slowly. The world is foggy and unfocussed; a side effect from whatever drug was used to subdue him. But the Devil's voice is sharp and crystal clear.

"Do you know what you are?"

He wants to answer, but his vocal chords are shrivelled, withered into silence.

"I'll tell you what you are." The voice continues. "You are a secret that needs unveiling. You are a problem that needs solving. You are a question, and I will answer you."

No straps hold down his chest. His torso is left wide open, an anatomical goldmine. And then he knows. After this—if he survives—this place will smell like pain.


	2. Chapter 2

A physiologist is not a man of fashion, he is a man of science, absorbed by the scientific idea which he pursues: he no longer hears the cry of animals, he no longer sees the blood that flows, he sees only his idea and perceives only organisms concealing problems which he intends to solve.

- Claude Bernard, _An Introduction to the Study of Experimental Medicine_

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**2.**

The scream of the saw lets him know what is coming.

He shuts his eyes against the scalding light above him. The saw shrieks past his face, down his throat, and hovers over his chest. A sharp blade is needed for his ribs—they protect the heart and lungs. Fascinating. He's never seen a heart with his own eyes before. He's never seen any organs.

"I would use anaesthesia, but I don't want it altering your body."

A reasonable objection. An experiment must be performed right. It should be pure. The scientist in him marvels at Bishop's foresight. It will only be one vivisection, then. No stitching up after a merciful anaesthetic unintentionally ruins normal function. Better to get it over with in one fell swoop, so he wouldn't crawl, seeping and spilling out and dying, into some cage to wait for death.

The saw dips into his abdomen.

A crackling white and red light smothers him behind his closed eyelids. He has felt pain before. He's been drubbed, sliced, broken, shattered, stabbed and shot. That was a pinprick.

He wonders what Bishop would see. The blade slices down a little more. Is he more human than turtle? What are the similarities, the differences? What does it mean to be human?

The light surges as the saw cuts him apart. His heart is booming in his skull. A curious thing, a heart—the essence of life. It is just an organ. But it moves. It squirms and throbs inside him. He can feel it. He can hear it. His heart.

The beating increases, attempting to make up for the blood loss. It thunders all around him, blocking out the shrill scream of the bone saw.

Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.

His heart speaks to him.

Alive alive alive.


	3. Chapter 3

In that laboratory we sacrificed daily from one to three dogs, besides rabbits and other animals, and after four month's experience, I am of opinion that not one of those experiments…was justified or necessary. The idea of the good of humanity was simply out of the question…

- Dr. George Hoggan, _Letter, _Spectator,_ Vol. 48 (1875)_

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**3.**

The air is filled with the repugnant, metallic smell of blood. He swore to himself that he wouldn't writhe, wouldn't thrash, wouldn't scream. But now he is doing just that. He can't help it. His body is smouldering under the assaults of various instruments. He doesn't want to break, but there is no choice. So he twists and arches as Bishop investigates his body, with saws, razors, pins and scalpels.

His struggling slows as the blood drains from his body. His scream trails off, and he swears he can see Bishop smile under the surgical mask. Won't be long now. The pain dulls. He must be dying. Maybe that's okay. Dying is okay. When he's dead he won't feel. But just as he accepts this, the attack on his body stops.

"Not yet, Donatello."

Bishop glides away from the table. Cool air settles on his abdomen. _Please, just let me die._ He hears the clatter of surgical tools being replaced. Bishop is talking.

"… can't learn enough in one session. And a dead body is useless to me. So we're going to take a little break. Don't go anywhere." He laughs at his joke.

Footsteps, and the closing of a door. Maybe he'll get lucky and bleed to death before Bishop returns. On principle, he jerks his arms feebly, but the leather straps are unyielding. Not that he puts up much of a struggle.

He doesn't know how long he lies there. His heart is still beating, the treacherous organ. Minutes—hours?—pass, and suddenly there is a noise outside. Damn. Still alive, and Bishop is coming back. He takes a few deep breaths. Hopefully they will be some of his last. Black is creeping into the corners of his vision. He feels light-headed, nauseous.

"D-Donny?"

He must be dying. He's losing his mind. His brothers aren't here, despite how much he wishes it. He can barely see anything now. His eyes roll around at the sound of movement close by. There's a sharp intake of breath.

"Holy … Jesus. _Jesus._"

Someone is standing over him. His vision has blurred and blackened. All he can see is an obscure shadow. Familiar … He's slipping, almost gone.

"Donny, hold on. _Hold on_ …"


	4. Chapter 4

If you're going through hell, keep going

- Winston Churchill

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**4.**

The memories come in the smell. He knows this smell.

It's the smell of a benign mould that drove him into a panic years ago; he was convinced it was toxic. It's the smell of musty air, despite his countless attempts to fashion some sort of ventilation system. It's the faint undertone of excrement and garbage; the smell will fade away in a few hours—he only notices it because he's been gone for so long.

Not a dream, then. He heaves a deep breath, and movement erupts around him. Even though his eyes are closed, he can feel their presence as they peer intently down at him. It's not often he is in this position: the patient, instead of the doctor.

"Is he awake?" A voice, hushed with trepidation and fear—so sweet in its familiarity

"Shh." A gloriously recognizable whisper. "I don't think so. Let him rest. He's been through a lot."

"Goddamn Bishop," comes the well-known growl. He can feel the corners of his mouth pull into a small smile. All he can manage at the moment. "The bastard wasn't even there. I swear to God—"

"_Shh_! You'll wake him. Let him rest."

The bickering moves off, and for a moment he is miserable for it. But he knows that soon he will have the strength to awaken. They won't be far.

Feeling starts to ebb into his body. An intense soreness in his abdomen. Stiffness in his muscles. He can feel bruises around his wrists and ankles from where the leather straps bound him. But he is free now, and he is glad for _this_ pain. It means he survived.

The nothingness begins to creep back, and he doesn't fear it this time. He knows he will come out of it soon. This is his well-deserved rest.

His heart beats calmly in his chest.

Alive, alive, alive.

**FIN.**


End file.
